


Pick Your Moment

by waldorph



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Dark, Dubious Consent, Fantasy, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-07
Updated: 2008-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:27:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waldorph/pseuds/waldorph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven years after he first arrives in Camelot, Mordred is back, but he still doesn't know what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pick Your Moment

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Всему свое время](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1485871) by [krasnoe_solnishko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/krasnoe_solnishko/pseuds/krasnoe_solnishko)



It has been seven years since he's been here. Seven years without a father. Seven years of his people cowering amongst the trees while all of Albion stirred restlessly.

"Magic," Uther had said, "causes all ills." And for twenty five years- a quarter century- Mordred's people have suffered for it. Still suffer for it.

They were forced to the outskirts of Albion, to the places where Arthur's reforms have not reached, not that five years on the throne is enough time for any edict to take root. His people live where they are not protected by Arthur's saintly new cause to embrace the magic of Albion.

He comes to Camelot for revenge. It burns hot in his stomach, is a flame behind his eyes. Sets his jaw at the merriment, at the smiles of the people of Camelot as he walks by them, worn cloak fluttering behind him.

He pauses as the crowd stills, children run to the steps of the palace. A lanky man is perched on the stairs carelessly, blue scarf around his neck, red robes open to reveal simple breeches and a finely woven shirt. His dark hair curls around ridiculous ears, and his blue eyes are nearly hidden as he laughs, bits of flame and sparkle and dust creating dragons that chase the screeching, laughing children. He makes shows of light, creatures of fantasy.

They adore him.

Emrys.

He is one of Mordred's people, one of his kind, and yet here he stands, right in the heart. He weathered the storm from the inside, but lifted not a finger for them.

Emrys' eyes lift, puzzled, and Mordred is seen, not just seen, known. Emrys stills, but the fantasy creatures do not blink out.

"Mer_lin_," an amused voice drawls from the top of the stairs, and Mordred looks up. Emrys does not.

He has aged well. His shoulders are still broad, and he still dresses more like a soldier than a king, with a fine jacket rather than cape, a circlet rather than crown. He has grown a beard, but he just looks…settled.

Arthur Pendragon looks _settled_.

"There is a council meeting," Pendragon continues. "Or have you managed to forget?"

"I was actually hoping you would," Emrys replies, grinning up over his shoulder.

Something else, something equally hot, burns in Mordred's stomach. It is different, it licks at him, saps him of strength.

Lust. Jealousy. Want.

"That would look good," the king snorts. "I make you my chief counsel and you avoid meetings."

"It's because they're boring," Emrys assures him.

Emrys turns to look at Mordred, who shrinks under his hood, and then he heaves himself up, up the stairs and the king smacks him lightly on the back of the head before resting a hand on his shoulder. Their heads lean together, hair mixing, smiles young.

_Why are you here?_ Emrys asks Mordred, hours later.

_Leave my head_, Mordred thinks back, leaning against a building.

_You cannot have him_, Emrys warns, and his voice is terrible, the weight of his magic is terrible.

_Who says I want him_? Mordred thinks back, slipping a mocking flirtatiousness into his tone.

Emrys _feels_ amused in Mordred's head. Mordred bristles against it.

_I let you live once,_ Emrys continues after a moment. He feels wary, conflicted. The same way he felt when he appeared to help Mordred escape. Mordred wonders if what saved his life that day was the fact that he used "us" instead of "me." If by implying the Prince was in danger, he saved his own life. _Do not make me regret that decision, Mordred._

Camelot thrums around Mordred. The Lady Morgana and the Princess Gwen, Arthur's betrothed, walk freely through the city, arm in arm. Children laugh, magic is openly used. Camelot, and Arthur, are still on the rise.

Even if Mordred were to take on Emrys, he would fail to kill Arthur. He would fail.

"You're still here," Emrys observes, coming outside once darkness has settled. It has been 7 hours since Mordred first arrived. "Thought you'd at least get a room."

_I like being outdoors_.

"Could you not?" Emrys winces. "It's rather disturbing, actually."

Emrys is unnervingly human at times.

"I like being outdoors," Mordred repeats.

"I had this- well, no. There was once a man who- well, no. He wasn't a man. He was…well, he used to be. The point is, he stood out here. Just here. Stared up at Arthur's bedchambers. He wanted to kill him. Well, he wanted Uther, but he'd settle for Arthur."

Emrys turns from his contemplation of long ago and turns golden eyes to Mordred. Mordred shudders.

"What do you want?" Emrys asks, quiet.

Mordred doesn't know anymore. He wants to taste the bow of Emrys' upper lip. He wants to kiss him and see if he can feel the magic that thrums through Emrys' very being. He wants to be buried inside him, have Emrys laid out underneath him.

And suddenly it is all there, Emrys' pale skin bared for him, Mordred's teeth sinking into the column of his neck as his fist closes around Emrys' cock. Emrys gasping, panting, choking and whimpering with need, body arching enticingly under Mordred's hands. Mordred's own cock leaks, aches to be inside, and Emrys manages, rolling over,

"Just do it."

Mordred does, finds the cumbersome task of preparing a lover done already, and he does not pause to wonder if this is because Emrys was recently with the king, or if this is a clever spell, but he slides in, Emrys' body a welcoming heat around him. He thrusts, hard, angry jerks of his hips and Emrys moans, slams his own hips so his ass meets every thrust, wanton.

Mordred stills, finally, cock jerking inside Emrys, and Emrys shudders his own release in that instant.

That's how he should have known it was a spell.

It takes a moment to realize his eyes are closed, and when he opens them Emrys is watching him, golden eyes hard and amused.

"A spell," Mordred gasps, still feeling the shocks of pleasure.

"Do you even know what you want?" Emrys asks.

He wants to understand why he was spared. He wants to understand why Emrys loves the King. He wants to replace the King in every way. He wants to kill them all. He wants to save his people. He wants to know what that would feel like in reality.

"I don't know," Mordred manages.

"Come back when you do," Emrys advises. It's said with a smile. A light smile. But it's a warning, and the gold never leaves his eyes. He doesn't flinch, for all Mordred is taller, heavier.

Mordred leaves less than 12 hours since he arrived in Camelot.

He doesn't return until he knows what he wants.


End file.
